Hunters (27 page)

"Tow us," the woman said coldly.

"Okay, that'd be another thirty bucks—"

"Fuck the money, let's just go."

Whoo
, thought Kyle, that woman had a
mouth on her all right. "Sure thing," he said, and started driving
back toward town. "You up here hunting?" he said after a few
uncomfortable minutes of silence.

"That's right," the big man said. "I'm Ted,
and this is Mary Jo." The woman turned sharply away from Kyle and
looked at Ted. Kyle wondered why she was so mad. Maybe she didn't
want Kyle to know her name. The names sounded familiar, but Kyle
couldn't place them.

"My name's Kyle," Kyle said.

"You a hunter, Kyle?" Ted said.

"Oh, you bet. Can hardly live around here and
not be."

"Did you kill a deer this season?" the woman
called Mary Jo asked flatly.

"Yes, I did," Kyle answered. "On Monday. Just
a spike, but I always thought the meat's tenderer on the young ones
than the bigger bucks."

"Some people," Mary Jo said, "would call that
rationalization."

Kyle shook his head. "Sorry?"

"That because you didn't get a deer with lots
of points, you're saying the meat's more tender when it really
isn't."

"Well now, that's true, some of my friends
say I'm just making it up, but I really think that's the way it is.
It makes sense, you know?"

"Guess the only way to find out," Ted said,
"would be to take an old one and a young one and eat them at the
same time."

"I guess so," Kyle said.

"According to your theory," Mary Jo said,
"fawn would be the most tender of all. Do you think we should be
allowed to hunt fawn, Kyle?"

Kyle thought for a moment. There was
something funny going on here. He didn't know what this woman's
problem was, whether she was bent out of shape because she got her
jeep stuck or what, but he figured the best thing to do was to let
the conversation slide. The less talk was the best talk. And with
the killings that had been happening out in the woods, the last
thing Kyle wanted to do was to piss off creepy strangers. "Don't
think so," he said.

"Why not?" she went on. "Why should fawn be
any different from adult deer?"

He half-smiled and shrugged, but didn't say
anything. Ted answered for him. "That wouldn't be
sportin'
,
Mary Jo. Those little babies aren't old enough to carry guns to
protect themselves."

Kyle laughed, just a little. Then, to his
relief, Mary Jo laughed too, although it sounded kind of forced.
But soon they were all laughing, heading down the long hill from
Goetz's Summit. Finally they stopped, and they didn't talk much at
all after that.

At one point near the bottom of the hill, a
snow squall whipped down upon them, and blowing snow made it nearly
impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. It was slow going
for ten minutes, and for a moment Kyle thought he saw flashing
lights pass him in the opposite lane, heading up the hill. Either a
police car or an ambulance, he figured. He thought about flicking
on his scanner, but thought maybe Mary Jo wouldn't like it, so he
left it off.

By the time they got back to the garage, the
snow had eased off again, and Kyle installed chains on the jeep's
tires. The whole bill came to $148.50, and Mary Jo gave him four
fifty dollar bills and told him to keep the change. He continued to
remain agreeable, and took the money, waving as they drove away,
their tire chains rattling, biting into the snow.

Maybe they were a little weird, but anybody who
tipped fifty bucks for a tow could afford to be weird.

M
ichael Brewster
felt caged in a prison of snow. Every time he heard the sound of an
engine, he raced to the window of his motel room and gingerly drew
back the curtain, expecting to see a phalanx of policemen armed
with grenade launchers advancing to his door. But it always turned
out to be a pickup truck with chains, or a van or car he didn't
recognize.

He didn't feel right about Jean and Chuck
going out after Ned Craig the way they did. Neither one of them
could keep their cool. He and Tim Weems had been the more rational,
stabilizing influences on the group, but with Chuck Marriner
accompanying Jean, Michael wouldn't have been surprised to hear on
the news that every fire tower and hunting cabin in the surrounding
five counties had been blown to bits.

The news held nothing of that nature, though
Michael heard plenty about yesterday's slaughter at the cabin.
There were no gruesome details, but newscasters called the murders
brutal and barbaric. As if those reports weren't enough to chase
people out of the woods, there were also warnings that the two feet
of snow already on the ground would be joined by an extra thirty to
thirty-six more inches during the next day and a half, and many
hunters could be stranded.

It was ironic, Michael thought, that the
weather had been so cooperative, though he didn't believe in signs.
If some being greater than himself had been blessing their cause,
he would have started the snowstorm on Sunday night.

The most alarming thing that the TV news had
done was show what looked like a new mug shot of Timothy Weems.
Timothy was still sticking to his amnesia story, but was being held
in police custody in a hospital in Coudersport. He didn't really
look like himself in the photo, in which a hospital gown covered
his chest, and Michael thought Tim was screwing up his face so that
he would be less recognizable. The newscaster said that anyone
recognizing the man should call the police immediately. Michael
hoped that Samantha Rogers wasn't watching. She might just be dumb
enough to call.

The rattling of tire chains outside drew his
attention away from the TV screen. When he looked out, he was
relieved to see the jeep in which Jean and Chuck had left earlier
that morning. Michael threw on his jacket and opened his door just
as Jean and Chuck climbed out of the jeep. "Any luck?" he
asked.

"All bad," Jean said with a snarl.

"I wouldn't say that," Chuck said. "After
all, we got to travel through the snow with a really charming guy
who pulled our ass out of the snow—"

"Where
you
got us stuck in the first
place!"

"But I wouldn't've if you hadn't kept
screaming at me to go faster up a goddam ice-covered hill!"

Suddenly rock music filled the cold air, and
they all turned and looked at the open door through which Sam
Rogers's head and shoulders protruded. "Hey hey, look who's here!"
she cried jovially. "Bag a fuck?"

Jean gave Sam a withering glare, then turned
and rammed her key into the lock of her room door.

"Guess not," Sam said with a shrug.

"Get in here," Jean said. "Everybody. We're
going to find him. We've got chains and we'll get goddamned
snowmobiles
if we have to, but we'll find him."

"How will we know where to look?" said
Michael, following her into her room. Chuck and Sam trailed behind,
and Sam pushed the door closed with her foot.

"Somebody knows where he is."

"Yeah, Jeannie, but
we
don't." Chuck
threw himself onto the bed with such force that it bounced.

"Jean, I think we should give it up," Michael
said, "get back to L.A. They're going to find out who Timothy is,
and they'll identify Andrew eventually."

"We're not going back until Ned Craig is
executed."

"But the F.B.I. is coming in. The TV
said—"

She whirled on him like a fury about to feed.
"I don't
care
what the TV said! I don't care if Elliot Ness
and J. Edgar Hoover in a goddamned
dress
are on their
way!"

Michael felt his cheeks growing red. "We did
what we came to do..."

"Ned Craig is an unpaid debt," Jean said,
sitting in the desk chair and hunching forward, her hands on her
knees. "I don't care if I have to do it alone, but I'm going to
find him, and he's going to die."

"I'm with Jeannie," Chuck said lazily. "I'm
not done up here yet. Besides, it doesn't make any difference if
they link Andrew or Tim with us today or two weeks from now,
they'll do it sooner or later, so what the fuck, I'm not even going
back
to L.A."

"I second that notion," Sam said without a
smile.

"Well,
I'm
going back," Michael said,
"and Jean, you know you are too. We may be able to—"

"To what, Michael? To go back and pretend
that none of this ever happened? We
killed
people, Michael.
In the eyes of the law we're all murderers—worse than that because
of what we did afterwards. We didn't set out to perform a suicide
mission, but we knew it could all come to that. And with Andrew
dead and Timothy captured, maybe that's the way it's going to be.
And if it is, then so be it. We can use that as well." Jean stood
up and started to pace in the confines of the small room. "This
case will get national attention, and so will our cause. We'll be
martyrs."

"Excuse me, Jeannie," said Chuck, "but
you
can be the martyr. I'd rather be one of the escaped
killers."

Jean's eyes narrowed. "I thought you said
you'd help me kill Craig."

"I will. I'm just not gonna hang around
afterwards and wait to make speeches to the cops."

"Neither am I," said Jean. "That's not what
I'm saying. I don't want to get caught, don't want to go to jail.
But if it happens, I'll make it work for me...for the cause."

"Spoken like a true fanatic," Chuck said,
grinning. "Personally, I'd prefer to go down in a hail of bullets
during a final shootout—"

"Like Bonnie and Clyde!" Sam said.

Chuck nodded. "A short life and a bloody
one."

"But you're still with me," Jean said.

"Yep. And so is Mikey, whether he wants to be
or not. Three to one, democracy rules. You got no choice, pal."

Jean looked at Michael intently. "Are you
with us? Craig dies, and it's over."

He knew it was stupid and childish. This was
revenge on one man, not a statement in support of animals. But at
the same time, he thought, what was one more life when they had
taken so many? Maybe when it was over, he could see what remained
of his own life. Besides, he was used to taking orders from Jean,
and was also bound to her by what he thought of as love. Andrew was
dead, and if Michael helped her execute his killer, maybe he could
step into both his and Andrew's former place as her lover.

So he nodded. "All right. I'm with you."

"Ooo boy," said Sam dryly. "I'm sure
relieved."

"Yeah, me too," Chuck said. "I didn't want to
have to kill you, Mikey."

Michael ignored the comment. "All right,"
Jean said. "First we have to find out where the man is."

"No," said Michael. "First we have to check
out of this motel. The police aren't stupid. Even if the F.B.I.
can't get into the area today, it won't be long before somebody
remembers seeing something—one of our vehicles, a license plate,
Timothy or Andrew's face—something that can lead them to us. And
remember, we've been paying in cash the whole time, including the
motel bill last night, and that draws attention. We've been here
for four days now. It's time to go."

"Got a point, Mikey," Chuck said. "We're packed
already, so let's haul it. Let's store everything we got in the
jeep, it's got chains. I'll drive the van. Let's go to that truck
stop east of town. We can dump the van there and figure out how to
find Craigo." He gave them all a broad smile. "And we can even talk
about what we wanta do with him when we do."

I
t was shortly past
noon when the jeep and the van arrived at the truck stop. The snow
was still coming down, and the weather reports on the radio said
that there would be a lull toward evening, but that a far larger
storm would hit sometime during the night.

"Hope Craig isn't too far away," Michael
said. "We might have trouble getting to him."

"Don't worry, we'll get to him," said Jean as
she pulled the jeep into a parking place at the side of the truck
stop. She was surprised to find only a few large trucks in the
parking lot, but then realized that with the hiatus in the
snowfall, truckers were probably trying to make up time they had
lost and would lose tomorrow, if the weather predictions were
accurate.

Although there were few big rigs parked,
there were over a dozen pickup trucks, sedans, and vans. Hunters,
she thought bitterly, and found her assumption correct when she
noticed two deer carcasses, the fur caked with snow, in the open
bed of one of the pickups.

Chuck had parked the van near the back of the
lot, and now joined them next to the jeep. "Let's go in as
couples," he said. "You and me, Jeannie, and Mikey and Sam. Now act
friendly, okay? Get that superior sneer off your face. You're just
another hunter, one of them, got it?"

Jean nodded, but she could not bring herself
to smile. "Why?" she asked. "Why do we have to be friendly?"

"Because, Jeannie, I'm gonna be my natural
charming and witty self and talk about what's been goin' on around
here, and 'Ain't it a damn shame about all these murders and all,
and wasn't that Ned Craig lucky to get that cocksucker'—hey, I'm
just actin' here, like Andrew, okay?—'and, man, you know the guy?
No, I've heard of him but never met him. Naw, not from around here,
over toward Williamsport...' And then I'm gonna find out a whole
lot about Ned Craig, because he's a hero, see, and everybody wants
to show what good friends they are with the hero. Oh, don't worry,
I may not find out where the hell he is, but believe me, I'll find
out who knows."

"I don't want to go in," she said. "I can't
listen to that. I'd get too angry."

"Fine, then wait in the fuckin' jeep," said
Sam, heading for the double doors of the truck stop, "but I ain't
had shit to eat yet today."